


Flame Pollen

by stardropdream (orphan_account)



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Gen, Non-Graphic Violence, War
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-23
Updated: 2013-02-23
Packaged: 2017-12-03 09:40:27
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,201
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/696898
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/stardropdream
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's 1814, and Washington is burning.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Flame Pollen

**Author's Note:**

> Originally posted on LJ November 14, 2010.

It was a surprise, really, to see Matthew standing there—but he should have known that this would be the case. And, really, it wasn’t that much of a surprise. It couldn’t be—who else would it be? Who else could it _possibly_ be, other than his own brother, who stood in front of him as the flames burned around him, as the searing pain in his gut let him know that his capital was burning to the ground.   
  
His brother was haggard. His eyes were haunted, and the flames flickered in his own eyes, as they stared, oddly calm, towards Alfred. For his part, Alfred only glared, betrayed none of the pain that gasped through his body as he felt bit by bit his capital shatter and scatter on the wind, ashes and choking smoke. The smoke stung his eyes, but he would not cry. No, he would not cry.   
  
“Playing Arthur’s toy now?” Alfred sneered, his gun pointed at his brother’s chest.   
  
Matthew’s expression flickered, and he shook his head after a long moment when he seemed a million miles away. He did not move, did not seem disturbed that Alfred was pointing his gun towards his chest. Alfred swallowed thickly, tasted the smoke clutching to the sides of his throat.  
  
Alfred waited for Matthew to answer, but his brother did not open his mouth. Alfred swallowed his disgust and took a step towards Matthew, his musket pointed straight to Matthew’s chest.   
  
“You—” he began, but in the end could not think of a proper explicative to call his brother—his only brother—  
  
The flames licked the sky.   
  
“He can’t be here to do his own dirty work, huh?” Alfred continued, and steadied his hands because there was no way that his hands could be shaking right now.   
  
There was no question of whom he spoke. His name hung unspoken in the darkened air. Matthew took a step towards Alfred and Alfred froze, holding his gun aloft and shouting out for the sake of shouting; he said no words. But it was enough. Matthew froze, and Alfred slowly circled his way around Matthew, never taking his gun from his brother, never taking his eyes off his brother.  
  
“Just bending down to his whim now, right? Can’t think for yourself. Always have to follow—”  
  
“I’m not—”  
  
“You are!” Alfred shouted, and before he could stop, he was charging through the charred street, rushing towards Matthew and slamming his shoulder into his brother’s chest. Matthew gasped out in pain, staggered backward and skidded across the ground, his head slamming against the ground with an audible crack. The gun he’d previously held, but had not pointed to Alfred, skittered out of his grasp and rested uselessly feet away from Matthew.   
  
Alfred struggled to pin Matthew down, and Matthew struggled to get free. Alfred didn’t let go of his gun, and slammed the butt of the musket into Matthew’s chin. With a hiss of pain, Matthew flopped back against the ground, Alfred shoving his knee into Matthew’s gut.   
  
“Alfred,” Matthew wheezed, and cringed as Alfred dug his knee into his solar plexus, knocking out the air from his lungs.   
  
“Why are you here?” Alfred shouted.  
  
“You… burned York,” Matthew said. “I had to—”  
  
“So now you’re burning me?” Alfred shouted. “Did you want to, or did _he_ send you? Wake up, Matthew—! He can’t care for you, he can’t—”  
  
“To me,” Matthew wheezed, ignoring the way Alfred glowered above him, face red and angered so close to Matthew’s own—how easily Alfred could shoot him then. But he did not. Not yet. “To me,” Matthew repeated. “Arthur is a g—”  
  
“Don’t say his name!” Alfred shouted, and hit his brother again.  
  
Matthew wheezed out, and was silent.   
  
Alfred backed up away from him, but Matthew did not scurry to stand up. Alfred kept his musket trained on Matthew, but there was no need: Matthew was not moving, to attack or to retreat. He just stayed there, looking up at Alfred with widened, flamed eyes.   
  
His chest was too tight, there was too much buzzing in his mind. Alfred started to laugh, and couldn’t stop laughing. “I understand now.”  
  
“Alfred—”  
  
“He’s sent you because he can’t do it himself! He’s too much of a coward to try to shoot me again,” Alfred interrupted, because he always interrupted Matthew, and he especially interrupted Matthew when he didn’t care what his brother had to say. Not now. Never again. His hands were _not_ shaking.   
  
“That’s—”  
  
“I’m not weak like him,” Alfred said, and stomped his way to Matthew again, shoving his foot against Matthew’s abdomen and shoving him down onto the ground when his brother tried to scramble to his feet. “I,” Alfred whispered, breath splintered with heat, “am not afraid to shoot when I have to.”   
  
Matthew stared up at him, but his eyes did not widen and he did not struggle.  
  
Alfred pointed his gun at Matthew.   
  
“Know this is happening because you chose the ‘good’ brother over your true brother,” Alfred hissed.   
  
Matthew stared at him.   
  
Alfred’s finger toyed with the trigger, his hands were not shaking. They couldn’t be shaking. His eyes stayed on Matthew, and Matthew, unflinching, gazed up at him, his jaw set.   
  
Minutes passed.   
  
Alfred swallowed thickly.   
  
The capital burned. The pain was searing through his chest, up into his vision.   
  
“It’s difficult, isn’t it? To shoot someone you care about,” Matthew said quietly.   
  
“Shut up!” Alfred shouted, his hands shaking. “Shut up, I can… I can shoot you.”  
  
“Can you?” Matthew asked, and almost smiled. But underneath it all, for a brief flicker in his eyes, Alfred could see that Matthew was scared. He hid it well. He hid it too well. “I can’t shoot you, Alfred. I’ve tried, too. Even though you’ve burned me—”  
  
“You’re burning me right now! Why do you—”  
  
“I’ll never be able to shoot you,” Matthew said. “No matter how much you might deserve it.”   
  
Alfred didn’t say anything, his eyebrows knitting together in his anger. He grit his teeth, opened his mouth to shout—and all that came out was a choked sound in the back of his throat. Matthew didn’t move, but even so Alfred still slammed his foot against Matthew’s chest, down on where he knew his brother’s body was burned—burned like Alfred’s body was burning up now, as the flames licked the sky and the smoke stifled the air around them. Matthew cried out, but quickly stifled himself, his teeth dragging against his bottom lip, his body tensing up in his pain.  
  
Alfred’s entire body was shaking now.   
  
In the distance, the Union Jack flew over Washington.   
  
  
  
  
**Notes:**  
  
\- [War of 1812](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/War_of_1812) between the United States of America and the British Empire mostly involved Canadian troops, given the proximity and the areas where battles took place.   
  
\- [Burning of Washington](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Burning_of_Washington) in 1814 is believed to be in retaliation to US troops’ burning and looting of York (now Toronto), in which non-military buildings were burned and looted (which was against laws of war during that time). The burning of Washington is the only time in US history, other than during the revolution, that Washington D.C. was held by foreign power.


End file.
